


Sixteen Candles

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Birthday, Brotherly Love, Epilepsy, Family Dinner, Fit, Fits, Focal Seizure, Gen, Generalised Seizure, Hurt/Comfort, I bloody love Daddy Holmes!, JME, Janz Syndrome, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, Myoclonic Epilepsy, Seizure, T/C Seizure, absence seizure, accidental ableism, epileptic, fitting, fraternal love, myoclonic jerks, petit mal, seizure disorder, tonic clonic seizure, tonic-clonic seizure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:44:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7486713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft comes home to help celebrate Sherlock's sixteenth birthday. He's shocked to learn his mother continues to keep Sherlock's epilepsy a secret, facilitating the idea that her son's condition is shameful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixteen Candles

Mycroft answered the phone in his dorm room on the third ring and held it to his ear with his shoulder whilst using his hands to simultaneously take notes and turn the pages of his text book. He didn’t have much longer left at university, but the workload only seemed to be increasing. “Yes?” 

“Mike,” Siger said brightly. 

“Oh, hello. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Mycroft asked, dropping his pen. He took the opportunity for a break and leaned back in his desk chair. 

“I just wanted to confirm you are still planning on getting the train home this weekend, for Sherlock’s birthday?” Siger asked. “Your mother is worried you may have forgotten.” 

“That is my intention, yes.” Mycroft nodded his head. “You can tell Mummy that my memory is intact. How is she?” 

With a slight laugh, Siger said, “Oh she’s fine, yes. Just fine. Planning Sherlock’s birthday meal as though it were an engagement party.” 

Mycroft laughed silently and lightly, though he wouldn’t let on to his father. “And Sherlock?” 

“He was dissecting a butterfly when I last poked my head into his bedroom,” Siger said with a grimace. “Your mother looked disgusted, poor woman, but she did insist on him being… _scientifically minded_.” 

Mycroft couldn’t help but smirk. For the last year, each conversation he and Sherlock had shared had revolved around Sherlock’s plan to study chemistry at university. Mycroft considered it to be a noble choice - it was good to have Sherlock on the positive side of medical science, potentially, rather than using his knowledge (that was already extensive, at just sixteen) for something more sinister. Mycroft knew he had the potential, drive and ability to go either way. 

“Indeed.” Mycroft laughed a little. “And he’s been...well?” He asked. He did worry about his brother, of course. How could he not? In the five years since Sherlock had been diagnosed with epilepsy, he’d been hospitalised twice due to convulsive status epilepticus - one occasion had seen him have to be put into a medically induced coma and intubated when nothing else seemed to work to control the prolonged clonic phase - and had recently been trialing a new medication which had meant his seizures were under considerably less control while his body adjusted, and everyone was getting used to the changes that the medication caused. 

“The new tablets make him quite sleepy.” Siger said, a little sadly. “And he can get a bit wobbly on his feet with them, too - they tend to have a soporific effect on his leg muscles.” There was a hint of humour in his tone, but Mycroft knew it was out of worry. “And, of course, he takes them more frequently than the Epilim, so he isn’t so happy about having to administer at school. I believe his exact words were that he was stared at like he was actually having a fit rather than controlling them.” 

“Children are hellish. I assume, then, that he’ll be telling Doctor Halesworth he doesn’t want to take those anymore?” Mycroft said with a frown.

“It’s up to him, ultimately, he knows how he feels and if he isn’t feeling well on them I am sure your mother and I won’t force him to take them.” Siger said evenly. “But even now we have noticed, side-effects notwithstanding, he is having a lot fewer absences, and the myoclonics in the mornings don’t last just as long.” 

“What is the drug?” Mycroft asked, getting up from his chair to find the textbook on epilepsy he’d acquired shortly after Sherlock’s diagnosis, along with any literature he could find on JME and generalised seizures. Finding it on the shelf, he took it back to his desk.

“Rivotril,” Siger said clearly. 

“Clonazepam,” Mycroft corrected it to the drug name over it’s brand term. “I can see now why he’s feeling tired, I did some research on the medications available to people with JME and clonazepam is used to treat severe myoclonics which will produce the fatigue and muscle relaxing effects. If he is being prescribed that, then the severity of his seizures was a concern to the doctor. Taking him off that now will surely only serve to allow his seizures to regain control and be more severe once again...?” 

“Mike, stop worrying about your brother. He’s doing well, on the whole, and it’s his birthday this coming weekend. Let’s not make this visit all about doom and gloom, hmm?” 

 

 

Sherlock’s birthday dinner, as expected, was a quiet but awkwardly familial affair. Aunts, Uncles and Cousins all descended upon Granny Holmes’ home and Sherlock and Mycroft, in their usual habit, sat mostly on the sidelines watching their variously-aged cousins engaged in idle chat and noisy laughter around the dinner table while Aunt Amanda and her second husband, Uncle George, fished for whatever family gossip they could get out of Siger and Violet. 

“So, how are you enjoying your final terms at university, Mike?” Siger’s youngest sister, Abigail, asked with a bright, big-toothed smile. 

“It’s wonderful,” Mycroft replied with obvious sarcasm but it was missed by all but Sherlock. 

“I expect you’ll be walking straight into a firm position of work?” Abigail continued, sipping at her fourth glass of red wine. 

Mycroft opened out his empty palms, “Who knows. But I do hold out hope for something of importance.” He smiled, this time more sincere in his answer. 

Smiling, Abigail fixed her eyes on her younger nephew. “And Sherlock, you’ll be moving into the upper sixth at school in the new term. Have you selected your subjects?” She asked, draining her glass. 

Sherlock nodded his head, “Chemistry and maths.” He said, oddly polite in his manner. 

“Another mathematician!” Abigail cooed loudly, “I bet you’re proud of your boys, Vi’?” She giggled. 

Violet smiled, first at her sister-in-law, then her sons. “I am; we’re both very proud of them.” She said, clutching her husband’s hand atop the table. 

“I’m going to Christchurch this coming year.” Alison, whose age fell somewhere between Mycroft and Sherlock chronologically, smiled brightly as she inserted her own intelligence into the conversation. “History and English. And I know Millie plans to follow me, all being well, once she finishes the upper sixth next year.” She nodded toward her younger sister. “Are you choosing between Oxford and Cambridge, Sherlock?” 

All eyes turned to the youngest of the Holmes’ grandchildren and Mycroft wince to see Sherlock’s eyes fluttering, mid-way through an absence seizure that continued as everyone gawked at him. Mycroft counted a beat of fifteen seconds - long by some standards - before Sherlock sighed and looked around the room. As he realised that all eyes were on him, a flush coloured his cheeks and he looked to Mycroft, to his left, for some kind of cue. 

“Oxford or Cambridge,” Mycroft said, as though nobody was looking at Sherlock like he had five heads. 

“Neither.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I’d rather go to York!” 

Violet laughed nervously, “Oh, Sherlock!” She kept the conversation going, hoping that Amanda and George would stop their whispering at the further end of the table. “With your brain, you could go anywhere you like. You could walk into a place at any given university, isn’t that right, dear?” she turned to her husband. 

“Yes, absolutely.” Siger nodded quietly. 

“I’m...just...going…” Sherlock pushed back his chair and got up from the table, excusing himself from the large dining room and slipped out into the echoic hallway of his fraternal grandmother’s home. He wasn’t surprised to hear footsteps behind him a moment later, nor to hear Mycroft’s voice. 

“Mummy still hasn’t explained it, even after all this time,” He sighed through his nose. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. It isn’t fair.” 

“It wouldn’t do to bring shame down upon the family now, would it?” Sherlock turned to face his brother. 

They stood quietly for a while in the low lit hall before Mycroft led into the guest lounge. Sherlock followed and closed the door behind them as Mycroft flicked on the wall lights. This room always reminded them both of Christmas - a cosy fireplace, large ceiling roses and framed photographs of all the Holmes’ grandchildren adorning the walls. 

“It’s not your shame, Sherlock.” Mycroft said firmly, dropping down into one of the fireside chairs. “Sincerely, it isn’t.” 

“No, it’s our parents’ shame. How unlucky for Dad to have a son with intelligence and yet a brain that still doesn’t work how it should. Such shame!” Sherlock flopped down into the adjacent chair. “They’re happening more often; it’s just seconds of haziness but I’m still dipping out of the loop. I’m a sixteen year old, completing his exams, who can’t stay focused.” He gave a mirthless laugh. 

“The new medication isn’t helping?” Mycroft asked. 

Sherlock shrugged, “It is...sometimes. I haven’t had a _big one_ in months but the jerkiness in the mornings is worse. The tablets make me feel off-balance and they’re not targeting the daydreaming.” He poked his tongue against the inside of his mouth. 

“Daydreaming,” Mycroft snorted. “Stop belittling this, Sherlock; it isn’t a choice, it isn’t something you can control - if they’re going to happen, there isn’t anything you can do about it. Is the PRN medication helping?” 

“I can’t take anything else like that on top of tablets that already make me tired and weak; I slept for a full twenty-four hours last time. Nothing is working, not properly.” He sighed and looked at his brother with sad eyes. “My head doesn’t work. And the only other medication available causes mood disorders. I’d rather fall down and convulse than feel suicidal.” 

Mycroft closed his eyes on hearing Sherlock’s words and tone. It made him feel sick. “I’m sure there are more options, Sherlock? Dad seemed to think they were better, but if they’re not then perhaps going back to the Epilim is a better idea; that seemed to work.” 

“I had too many big seizures taking that.” Sherlock shook his head. 

“And have you had any on this new one?” Mycroft reasoned and he widened his brows as Sherlock nodded his head. “Then why not revert to the Epilim?” 

“I read that if you have all three common seizure types with JME, you’re unlikely to find an umbrella control. I can control one, or two, but not all of the seizures. And it’s getting exhausting.” Sherlock rested his head back on the chair and stared up at the embellishments on the ceiling rose above him. 

“I’m worried, Sherlock. You’re quiet, sleepy...and you’re zoned out.” Mycroft watched Sherlock, waiting for the absence seizure to pass. It was a mere ten seconds, but Mycroft hated it. “Oh, little brother.” He sighed, “Happy Birthday.”


End file.
